


Until The End It's Me and You

by loverofthelight24



Series: I Promise, I'll Do Better [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Declarations Of Love, F/M, First Time, Foreshadowing, Jealous Stiles, Missing Scenes, Non-Explicit Sex, Oblivious Lydia, Pre 6x01, Protective Stiles, Stiles Stilinski Feels Guilty, because stiles stilinski went out of his freakin' mind and jeff davis needed to write this scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:03:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8285215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loverofthelight24/pseuds/loverofthelight24
Summary: But now Stiles is gently wiping the tears under her eyes with his left thumb as his other hand is clasping her wrist in an effort keep her here, just like he would during the nights of mathematical theorems and soft touches, and she really doesn’t know what she wants besides the inescapable urge of “more.”When it comes to feelings, Stiles and Lydia aren’t bold about them. It mostly exists with them in touches, lingering glances and protective sentiments; but rarely in explicit words. However, it’s another time and place and Lydia wants it to be different. Better.“Kiss me.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LaughingSenselessly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingSenselessly/gifts).



The atmosphere in the jeep is tense at best.

In actuality, it’s stiff and void of everything pleasant in this world. The excuse, “well duh, it’s Beacon Hills” may work in another time and another place, but not now. It hasn’t been a viable excuse since Allison died.

Especially not now, when the only sounds present are the muffled police radio, the pounding of the storm against the windshield and Stiles’ shallow breathing. Lydia is partly to blame for the tension, because she’s been silently seething ever since Stiles picked her up sixteen minutes before.

She honestly didn’t plan on going out tonight. Shockingly, in comparison to her sophomore year self, Lydia Martin rarely goes out anymore. Most of her weekends are spent highlighting Voltaire passages, creating and solving chemical equations on the massive whiteboard her mom gifted her a few Christmases ago, or occasionally confronting whatever supernatural threat was drawn to the Nemeton with the pack.

Regardless, she spends every passing weekend in the suffocating four-and-a-half mile radius that is Beacon Hills. So when Connor, an ex-fling of a Lydia Martin another time and place ago, texts her that night with an invitation to one of his fraternity’s parties, which is conveniently at the university twenty miles south; she instantaneously accepts.

Well, not _too_ instantaneously. She texts Stiles first.

 

**SENT: 8:34 P.M.**

**Popcorn and movie tonight? I’ll let you pick whatever you want, no matter how mind-numbingly and unnecessarily action-packed it is.**

He texts her back within a minute.

 

**FROM: Stiles**

**RECEIVED: 8:35 P.M.**

**Can’t. Busy.**

Only then does she text Connor back with her acceptance, ignoring the holes in his text and the ones that have only expanded in the pit of her stomach.

She fills these holes by painting her lips red and her body almost bare in a black dress, while blending into the inebriant crowd perfectly when she starts knocking back tequila shots with Connor.

They’re only on their second shot, and he’s openly gawking at her cleavage as she licks the line of salt off his arm when she sees Stiles weaving throughout the random hordes of people. As soon as his sight sets on her, she’s torn out of the house with a firm hold, wild eyes, and a too-big flannel billowing behind them. Even when she swears and thrashes against him in protest while he straps her in the passenger seat, he’s silent.

Instead, he’s resorted to using jagged breaths and white knuckles against the steering wheel to indicate that he is _pissed._ Lydia, however, is pissed that _he_ is pissed. It’s been two months since she woke up on the steel table in Deaton’s clinic when Stiles heaved over her lifeless body and threaded their fingers together, but this has been the most interaction between the two of them since then and they aren’t even talking. This, and four minutes before.

 

_“Where do you think you’re going, Stilinski?”, she asks/demands as they pass the dim silhouette of her house._

_“My house,” he retorts quickly._

_She scoffs._

_“What makes you think that’s acceptable?”_

_“I’m the driver, therefore I decide where to go.”_

_It’s a relatively long sentence considering, but the words are too quick and too jumbled to be anything short of rage._

_“You didn’t have to be the driver, you didn’t even have to pick me up. I was perfectly able to-“_

_“Lydia, for the love of god, please stop talking.”_

So, there’s that.

It seems like an eternity and a day before the jeep stumbles into the Stilinski’s driveway, and Lydia is already looking for her window of opportunity to escape until a murmur sounds from the driver seat.

“Don’t bother. Your mom is the one who called me to pick you up.”

If this was a cartoon, Lydia is certain she’d have red hot steam streaming out of her ears. She wants nothing more to shatter his precious jeep’s glass with a banshee scream, because how dare her mother and how fucking _dare_ he. Her goosebump-ridden body is betraying her however, because the yellow warmth of his porchlight is drawing it in. She tries to ignore the fact that Stiles is already standing under it, unlocking the front door with his back towards her as she slams the car door and marches up the porch in a flimsy pair of stilettos.

He almost shuts the door in her face as it unlocks, leaving her out in the downpour for a moment and this makes the blood under Lydia’s skin boil, because the Stiles who begged her to “show him her eyes”, with tears burning his own two months previous would never think of doing so.

Seeing Stiles charge upstairs, she grudgingly removes the stilettos from her feet, dangling them from her fingers as she trudges up the stairs toward his bedroom.

It’s a room that’s both familiar and foreign to her. In another time and place where, “duh, it’s Beacon Hills” could explain everything, a barefooted Lydia would sprawl on Stiles’ bed as if it was her own as he rambled and strung red yarn to photos of things they should’ve never discovered in the first place. When things became too heavy, they would lie under his flannel covers as Lydia spouted random mathematical theorems to distract herself from the screams searing inside of her. He would tangle their legs together, or simply hold her waist with the flats of his palms to ground her; keep her from going to a place she has now become all too familiar with. It seems like a lifetime ago.

It _was_ a lifetime ago. It was before Allison died, before Aiden followed the same fate, before it became routine for her heart to plummet to the pit of her stomach every time she saw Malia and Stiles together.

 _Before Eichen,_ she thinks to herself, briefly squeezing her eyes shut as she does so.

“Here, change into something comfortable,” Stiles says, barely looking at her as chucks a pair of gray sweatpants and lacrosse practice jersey in her direction.

If Lydia is being honest, she’s far from comfortable in the dress that was once fit perfectly sophomore year before her breasts went up a cup size. In fact, her skin aches to be caressed by the soft material of his clothes. But she doesn’t catch them. Instead, she lets the garments hit her knees and pool at her bare feet, dropping her heels on top of pile.

He’s telling her to wear his clothes, and he can’t even look at her.

It’s a blurry, infuriating mess of both familiarity and foreignism and she can’t allow it to go on any longer. So she plants her feet on the Berber of the carpet, crosses her arms, and says:

“No.”

She doesn’t achieve her objective at first. He’s still rummaging through his drawers, back turned towards her as he tosses his own change of clothes onto the foot of his bed.

“Lydia come on, just change,” he groans, tugging his shirt off and throwing it to a random corner of the room.

The planes of his back, lightly sculpted with lacrosse muscle, would’ve silenced any qualms within her two months ago. And it almost does, except it’s impossible to forget how livid she is when he _still_ can’t look at her.

“No, I’m fine in this.”

Resorting to huffing, he runs a bar of deodorant under his arms. Before he can settle into the silence of the jeep again, she repeats herself.

“I’m not wearing your clothes.”

It causes Stiles to almost freeze, the muscles in his back twitching as he puts the deodorant back on top of the dresser while slowly turning to face her. She almost wants him to turn back around and continue ignoring her when he’s looking at her like this.

Like he has consumed her own anger as well as his own. Like there are screams and shouts beating at the confines of his eyes. Like he almost _loathes_ her.

“Lydia, you’re being ridiculous,” he says, too-calculated and too un-Stiles-like. “This is over a dress.”

At that, Lydia’s indifferent façade shatters.

Her red fingernails are digging into the crimson of her palm as she unwinds her arms, only to have them shake at her side as she stomps towards him.

“You know damn well this isn’t over a dress, Stiles!”

Because Stiles is Stiles and Lydia is Lydia and they are a chemical experiment waiting to combust, he’s just as quick to respond with his eyes wide and mouth open.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re not dumb, so don’t you dare act like it,” she warns, the words bubbling in her throat making her unaware that he has taken a step of his own towards her. “For once, I was having fun-“

“Having fun? You were taking shots with a guy who was only thinking about how fast he can get you out of your dress,” he says venomously. “-With about five other dickheads behind him wondering the same thing.”

“Why do you care?” she shouts. “You’re the one who said, might I add _so_ concisely, that you didn’t want to see me tonight. And then you do this, Stiles. This is the most interaction we’ve had in months, _months!_ ”

The last part of her sentence fails to follow the rest of her ambush and instead descends into a pathetic whimper, because she’s just so damn sad that she now exists in a universe where Stiles Stilinski isn’t actively trying to talk to her. However, it’s a universe that’s far better than the reality of what follows her next words.

“I almost lost you Stiles, and you can’t even look at me.”

His gaze is lifted from the carpet and for the first time tonight, she notices pain flit across his expression. He’s finally looking at her, gaping even; but it’s not in the way Lydia wants him to do. It’s a wounded expression, one that suggests that despite what she thinks, she’s the one hurting him.

“You almost lost _me_?”

It’s like he’s waiting for her to give him some sort of indication that she heard his words and how he said them, because when she nods hastily, he begins again. Maniacally.

“You’re the one who almost died, Lydia- Fuck, you did die. I touched you, held you, _loved_ you; and then you freaking died in my arms!”

If there’s something Lydia never expected to feel tonight, it’s shock. But she can’t help it, because suddenly the anger has vanished from her bloodstream, her knees have locked willingly below her, and she knows she’s not going anywhere. She can’t. Not when Stiles is yelling and openly crying bare chested in front of her; alone with her.

“Scott couldn’t hear your heartbeat. You were gone. You took your last breath in front of me, because of me-“

“Stiles-“

She takes a step closer, not realizing just how close they were before until the front of her arm knocks against his own. She keeps it there.

He doesn’t move it.

“I told you sophomore year that if you died, I would go out of my mind,” he mumbles, almost inaudibly as his head dips closer to the crook of her neck. “This is me going out of my mind, Lydia. You’re alive now, and thank god you are, but it doesn’t change how absolutely fucked everything is now.”

She has to understand, because she feels it too. Nothing is the same, and it hasn’t been since that other time and place in their lives where Allison Argent’s heart was beating and Scott McCall’s wasn’t broken.

“I touched you, and you died. I touched Allison,” he almost chokes on her name, and Lydia has to bury her face in the side of his neck to stop herself from doing the same. “-and she died. I touched Aiden, then he died. I touched Donovan, and a fucking pole went through him. The only person that hasn’t died in this equation is me, and it’s-it’s just not right.”

Lydia Martin is bred with all things logic and rationality, but she can’t explain this. She can’t explain why she can’t stop repeating his name or running her hands across the bare expanse of his shoulder other than the fact that she just _wants_ to.

“Stiles...“

“If I have to be alive, then God, Lydia- just tell me what you want,” he says, lifting his head and bringing hers along with him. “Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it. I swear to god, I will.”

Her mind is spinning, because when she marched up the staircase of his house only minutes before, she knew exactly what her aim was. She wanted to scream at him, have him to apologize to her for ignoring her the past few months, or really to just _look_ at her. But now Stiles is gently wiping the tears under her eyes with his left thumb as his other hand is clasping her wrist in an effort keep her here, just like he would during the nights of mathematical theorems and soft touches, and she really doesn’t know what she wants besides the inescapable urge of “more.”

When it comes to feelings, Stiles and Lydia aren’t bold about them. It mostly exists with them in touches, lingering glances and protective sentiments; but rarely in explicit words. However, it’s another time and place and Lydia wants it to be different. Better.

“Kiss me.”

His thumb is stilled on her face, as well as the hand on her wrist, and there are undoubtedly millions of questions plaguing him right now. But when he slowly slides the pad of his thumb down her cheek, Lydia takes the chance to lightly suck the tip of it.  

It’s silent again for a few moments, and Lydia starts to think that he’s not going to follow through. It’s not until she glances up from under her eyelashes that she sees his mouth land on her own.

Despite the rapidity of its precursor, the kiss is slow. Lydia knows it’s because he’s trying to make this one different from their first one since the air he’s drawing from her lips is feather-light as he runs his hands downwards to settle on the small of her back. She also knows that it’s caused by his belief that “everyone he touches dies”, but Lydia knows that this can’t be true when she feels something very much alive spread throughout her veins. She can’t say it aloud, not yet anyways, but she knows it’s something she’s never felt with anyone besides the dark haired boy kissing her right now.

When she pulls away, she’s reminded of a locker room and the panic attack she solved with the red of her lips and she accepts it’s a feeling she’s had for a while.

“Please- tell me what you want, Lydia.”

Clutching the breadth of her hips, he starts a trail with his lips on her chin, to her cheek, behind her ear before finally finding residence on the swell of her neck. Involuntarily, she stutters when he nips the skin of her neck, and her hands find purchase in his hair just as she moans into his ear.

“Just don’t let go.”

So he doesn’t.

Rather, he spends the whole night focusing on every possible way to hold onto her. Twenty minutes ago, she was fuming at anything having to do with Stiles for yanking her out of her personal escape from Beacon Hills. But now when he’s touching her like _this_ , it’s hard to be ungrateful for it.

After they’ve both stripped one another of their clothes, Stiles maps the entirety of her body, labeling any and every physical “flaw” he finds with his lips. In the simplest of terms, he worships every particle that is Lydia Martin, even the not-so-pretty ones. As soon as he kisses the wide scar on her left hip from Peter Hale, she can’t help but cry.

Quickly lifting his head up, he finds Lydia with a finely manicured hand grasping his hair, and tears spilling from the green of her eyes onto the porcelain of her cheeks.

“Hey Lyds, hey,” he whispers soothingly as he sits up on the bed, bringing her cheeks into his hand as he wipes the oncoming tears with the pads of his thumbs once again. “What’s wrong? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She has to take a few moments to collect herself, to ground herself by crying into his hands. After that, she lets out a watery laugh because here she is, stark naked with a boy who has every power to hurt her, undermine her, destroy her; and yet, he doesn’t. He instead looks at her like he always has; with both the worry of losing her and the wonder of discovering her all at once. It resolves to this:

Stiles Stilinski is selfish, but never with her. Stiles Stilinski is volatile, but never with her. Stiles Stilinski is careless, but not with her.

Stiles Stilinski hates the world that caused the scar on her hip, but has always loved her. Always always always.

“No, you didn’t hurt me,” she finally answers him, even though there are still tears sliding down her cheeks. She can tell he’s confused, and that he’s about to follow it up with a thousand more inquiries about her well-being, so she cuts him off before he can do so.

“I just, feel _so_ much for you, Stiles. Even when 93% of the time, you won’t stop talking and I just want to strangle you-”

“Wow Lyds, I’m touched, truly,” he says, sarcasm seeping in his voice, but he’s still wiping her tears as he says so. “Is that statistically proven? Because if not, I think more research needs to be done to counterbalance-”

“For the love of god Stiles, shut up and let me finish.”

He does, ignoring the double entendre because Lydia is trailing her fingers down his chest and her touch must be pure magic because it’s rendering him speechless.

“What I meant to say is even with that, I’m still so in love with you,” she says, smiling fondly at her own admission as her fingers dance on his bare hip. “I know I haven’t always like you have, and I know I probably don’t quite deserve it still but I hope it’s enough for you-“

This time, he doesn’t let her continue. Instead, to her relief, he smashes his lips against hers. More so than ever, he moves with her, breathing between her lips and simultaneously fulfilling his promise to her by not letting go by grabbing a hold of her hips. It’s quick, but it still leaves her head spinning. What he says next, with the top of his lip still touching her own, leaves her utterly boneless.

“Fuck, Lydia, it’s always enough,” he pants, kissing her once more before he moves downwards and leaves hot, open-mouthed kisses on her collarbone. “It’s always been you, always always always….”

Seconds later he’s inside of her, and she can’t help but let out another sob because it just feels _so_ right. He stalls with panic in his eyes, so she traces the moles on the side of his face like a constellation and nods with a smile.

“It’s okay, I love you.”

His eyes soften at this, like he’ll forever be in total awe that she’s saying this so openly. When he says it back, she knows there’s no fragment of her that doesn’t mean every word. He says it once more while kissing her, hard and long, before he begins to move with her again.

It’s rhythmic this time, and the things he’s whispering in her ear make her want to shout his name over and over into the next stratosphere. Because she can, she rakes her fingernails down his back and marks him. It’s a beautifully new concept, and she knows Stiles realizes this as well because he’s taking every opportunity possible to nip the skin between the column of her neck and the valley of her breasts.

When she finishes, there are fireworks burning the brims of her eyes that don’t detonate until she screams his name. He follows her soon after, in a way that she always imagined was typical of Stiles; with eyes clenched shut, mouth hanging open and Lydia’s name vibrating off the walls. They stay like this for a few moments; limbs entangled, shakily breathing in sync while neither of them so much as attempt to open their eyes.

When she finally peers at the moles dotting the side of his face and the content upturn of his lips, she realizes this moment here with Stiles isn’t an isolated incident. Rather, this is a just singular data point on an endless timeline with him. And when she begins to scatter kisses all over his face, she forgives herself for something.

Maybe she hasn’t loved him always, but she loves him now. And that’s enough in a world of constant chaos and strife. It has to be, because even if she was to forget everything the next day, she’s certain that she’d always remember the moles that scattered his cheeks, the amber of his eyes, and the confusing yet wonderful way Stiles Stilinski made her feel both everything and nothing all at once.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically this is a result of me having a lot of Stydia feelings (as per usual). I wrote this months before the s6 trailer came out (which I'm still freaking out about btw) and it's shorter than I wanted it to be initially, but regardless S/O to Jade (@LaughingSenselessly) for beta-ing in the beginning and dealing with my indecisive annoying ass weekly. You're literally the bomb.
> 
> Title is from "Silhouette" by Active Child ft. Ellie Goulding. Find me on Tumblr @stilesprefers-screamers and Twitter @loveroflight24 for fic updates, everything Stydia/TW related and hella more!


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